It’s a violation. I know it.
I do it anyway.
And the longer I stay, the more memories hit.
Her on the bed. Curled into me after sex.
The fights—sharp, ugly—and how they always spiraled into something else.
All the times I tried to leave before I finally did leave.
God. The room already smells like her.
Roses and spice. Florals with a bite—that’s what I used to call it.
Her clothes are scattered across the dresser, spilling onto the floor.
She’s never been tidy. Never cared enough to be. Clothes rolled, crumpled, shoved wherever they land.
That same chaos runs through everything she does.
Always moving. Always rushing. Never stopping long enough to sit with anything.
And that’s the problem.
She doesn’t want to think about the past.
Everything gets pushed down, buried, drowned out—until it comes back all at once.
And it kills me that I see it so clearly… and still can’t fix it.
Only she can do that.
I just have to get her to try.
I can’t let her walk away like this.
Even if she hates me for it.
It’s the least I owe her.
I’m so wrapped up in that thought that I almost miss it—the slight rise under her blanket.
I reach over and pull it back.
And freeze.
A pink toy lies on the sheets, and there’s no mistaking what it is.
My brain blanks. Heat surges through me, fast and hard.
I pick the vibrator up, my hand tightening around it as heat slams through me.
Fuck. Did she just use this?
Is that… her on it?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s useless. Images hit fast, hard, my body reacting before I can stop it.